


How I Fall Asleep

by Becks_Rylynn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Lydia, Basically a lot of Very Bad Things happen, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Danny/Lydia BROTP, Depression, F/M, Lydia-centric, M/M, Pack Family, Pack Feels, Poetry Feels, Pregnancy, Slow Burn Derek/Lydia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-04 02:37:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becks_Rylynn/pseuds/Becks_Rylynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'She is brilliant, she is beautiful, she is reckless when it comes to love, she is too brave, too blunt, too critical, and she is far too young to be this broken, this lost, this tired.' OR: How Lydia Martin lost everything during her senior year of high school and subsequently fell down a dark and spiraling rabbit hole of depression, only to slowly gain back what she never knew she needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. people in glass houses

**Author's Note:**

> And so this is it, folks. This is my massive epic Derek/Lydia angst fest. When I say epic, I mostly mean long. It was going to be a short oneshot and somehow morphed into a huge ongoing multi-chapter fic that has taken over my Teen Wolf world. I wasn't going to even start posting it until it was completely finished, but then things happened and someone persuaded me to start posting. (*coughkatheycough*) Which, admittedly, wasn't that hard. It was the shortest ''wear down'' in the history of ''wear downs.''
> 
> But here it is! It's depressing and sad, so I hope you enjoy angst! And slow updates. Because there will be slow updates. But what can I say? I love Stiles/Derek and Scott/Isaac as much as the next person, but this pairing needs more love.

_''Life will hit you hard in the face,  
_ _wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the stomach._  
But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to  
remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air.''  
\- **sarah kay; b**  

.

.

.  
  
 **/i/**

_people in glass houses_

.

.

.

Lydia Martin is many things.

She is brilliant, she is beautiful, she is reckless when it comes to love, she is too brave, too blunt, too critical, and she is far too young to be this broken, this lost, this tired. She should not have to feel this kind of exhaustion. The kind that goes so far past tired, the kind that slithers into every part of your body and makes you feel weak, like your legs can't support you and your head's too heavy. The world is too much, this exhaustion tells you. It is all too much. And nobody should ever have to feel that.

Her great aunt Camilla once told her, in her sweet, crackling voice, beauty shining in her wise and worldly blue-gray eyes - the same eyes Lydia used to look into and think _I want this one day, this strength and intelligence. I want it all_ \- that there is only one secret to life: _We take what we're given, my darling, and we make our best with it. There is no other option._ It was a pearl of wisdom that Lydia kept in her back pocket, folded away like a secret weapon, only bringing it out when the walls crumbled around her, when she needed strength and the memory of Aunt Camilla to help her breathe. She lived by that advice and saw nothing else.

_There is no other option._

It was one of those things she never forgot. Like _never frown, someone could be falling in love with your smile_ or _I am_ _Lydia Martin and I am going to be somebody one day, somebody that means something, somebody that means everything._ It was the light she looked to when Peter Hale was in her head, when she was thrust into the world of the supernatural because Jackson was a giant lizard (she wasn't even surprised, really), when Derek killed Peter (again) for her on Halloween night, leaping in between his uncle and Little Red Riding Hood with her tangled red hair and her ripped clothing and tearing him apart because Peter tried to make Lydia his forever (...again), or when she realized that being a part of the Hale pack was unconventional and strange but also the best thing that had happened to her in years.

It was her own personal honor code.

But, God, it was so much easier to follow back when her biggest problem was her fear of being alone. _We take what we're given, and we make_ _our best with it. There is no other option._ Yes. It's such a simple notion in theory. The power of positivity, of a smile, of seeing the beauty in everything.

Except Aunt Camilla never told her how to make the best out of something like this.

.

.

.

At the funeral, she sits beside Danny and lets him hold her hand so tightly it hurts. She studies him when he's not looking, watching the clenched jaw, the tears in his eyes, the dark circles. Poor, sweet, wonderfully clueless and safe Danny. This is his loss too, she remembers, and gives his hand a squeeze. The rest of the pack sits in the back of the church, grim faced and tired. Allison is crying openly, weeping into a Kleenex and holding on tightly to Scott and his sad puppy dog eyes. Erica is sitting in between Boyd and Stiles, holding on to both of their hands, all three of them looking awkwardly devastated.

Derek and Isaac aren't there at all.

Lydia and Danny sit behind Jackson's family and they all make a little clump of people left behind.

In the church, people talk about Jackson as if they really knew him. They drone on and on about the boy he was and the man he never got the chance to be ( _that's not true,_ she wants to scream. _You have no idea what he went through. You have no_ _idea what he's done for the safety of this town. He was just as much a man as any of you_ ). Lydia sits in her seat, squirming, itching to tell them everything else about him; all the things they'll never know, but should know. She doesn't speak, even though she has so much to say.

_Jackson Whittemore was a fucking hero, she would say. Did any of you know that? No, of course you don't. You people don't know anything about who he really was. He was part of the Hale pack and he saved your clueless asses more times in the past year than you can count. He was my everything, did you know that? I'll bet you didn't. Well, he was. He was everything. He was my religion, my faith, my beginning and my end. He was going to marry me, you know. He died because of me, you know. I'm sorry. Did I say that? I shouldn't have said that._

She sits still and remembers there is no other option. She holds herself together with invisible duct tape because she has to. For Danny. It's what Jackson would have wanted. The only time she cries is when Danny speaks about Jackson, about how he was the best friend anyone could ever ask for, about how he loved him, about how they were going to take over the world together, and even then, it's just a trickle of soundless tears. She keeps her eyes closed through most of it and focuses on breathing through the crawling nausea, trying to forget the feel of blood and the sound of gunshots.

Somehow, she makes it through the day.

When she opens her eyes again, she is standing outside in the bitterly cold January air, with Allison on one side and Danny on the other, and Jackson is in the ground.

.

.

.

Her legs feel like jelly and her fingertips are numb, but she tramples across the grass anyway, nearly toppling over in her heels. She doesn't want to be doing this. It's going to cut her open just talking to them. But this is something she has to do. This is her punishment for killing their son. She approaches them quickly, but with dread and unease, heart pounding away noisily.

''Mr. and Mrs. Whittemore?'' She grimaces at the sound of her hoarse voice, pathetic even to her own ears.

They turn around to face her, broken eyes and devastation, and she recoils in surprise, almost tumbling to the ground. They're looking at her like she's the same as them. ''Oh, Lydia. Honey.'' Mrs. Whittemore pulls her in for a tight hug before any protests can be made and Lydia sinks into it against her will. There has always been something about Jackson's mother, something warm and soft and decidedly maternal; something that Lydia has never fully gotten to experience in her life.

A cry bubbles in her throat, a mournful wail, but she stubbornly pushes it back down, deciding that she doesn't deserve to cry. She does not deserve this comfort and warmth. She draws away from Mrs. Whittemore and can't look either of them in the eye. They don't seem to notice.

''How are you, dear?'' Mrs. Whittemore asks, voice trembling. ''You look so tired,'' she adds, reaching out to cup Lydia's face.

''I...I...'' She can't remember what she was going to say. ''I'm sorry,'' she gasps out, body folding into itself. She has to fight to keep herself from doubling over in pain. ''I'm so sorry.''

''Oh no,'' Mrs. Whittemore shakes her head adamantly and takes Lydia's hands, while Mr. Whittemore's hand rests like an anchor on her back. ''This wasn't your fault, sweetie. You can't think like that.''

''It was bad luck,'' Mr. Whittemore says firmly. ''That's all. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.''

Mrs. Whittemore is shaking now, dropping Lydia's hands and holding a tissue to her mouth. Her entire body is quivering with all of the sobs and the screams she's keeping in. ''We have to live with that,'' she croaks out, and it doesn't sound like she's talking to Lydia anymore.

Lydia opens her mouth to protest, to tell them that it was her fault, that their son died because of her, because she distracted him, because he wanted to protect her, and she needs them to hate her for what she did, for killing their boy. Nothing comes out.

''You were good to him,'' Mr. Whittemore says with a sad smile, and it reminds her how she still sometimes can't believe that Jackson was adopted, because he used to have that same sad smile. ''Good _for_ him. I'm glad... I'm glad he had you. He deserved a good girl like you.''

Her breath catches in her throat and she looks anywhere but him, glancing around desperately for something to hold onto. ''I loved him,'' she says at last, because she can't think of anything else to say.

Mr. Whittemore nods brusquely. ''He loved you, too, Lydia. Even if he didn't say it.''

She looks up sharply and forces herself to lock eyes with him, ignoring the way the guilt pierces into her like a needle, like a knife. ''He loved you, too,'' she tells him strongly, loudly, as if she is trying to drill it right into them. She just needs them to know. Jackson was their son and though he stopped saying those three words a long time ago, he loved them both so much. She's not sure if it's the wrong thing to say or the right thing, but it makes Mr. Whittemore's eyes fill with tears and Mrs. Whittemore completely dissolves, breaking under the weight of it all and physically crumpling until her husband has to hold her up. Lydia remains frozen in place, even as another family member comes to lead the hysterical grieving mother away, leaving her standing alone with Mr. Whittemore.

She can't bring herself to walk away.

Out of nowhere, he makes a sudden move towards her and she flinches, despite her efforts not to, because aside from Jackson, Stiles and, for reasons she can't understand, Derek, she hasn't been great with physical touches from other males since Peter. Mr. Whittemore brings both of his warm hands to her cold cheeks and leans in to kiss her forehead, like a father would. ''Thank you, Lydia,'' he murmurs against her skin. Despite all of her attempts to stop the landslide and stall the waterworks, she is crying when he pulls away. ''You get some rest now,'' he orders her, not unkindly. His hand rests on her shoulder briefly, and he offers her one last watery smile, and then he's gone.

She still can't bring herself to move. Warm tears roll down her freezing cold pale cheeks and her breath hangs in the air as she pants, trying desperately to regain a steady breathing pattern. Her eyes seek out something familiar, something safe, but she can't find it. She looks to Jackson, but there is only a pile of dirt where he should be, and she looks to the pack, but they're all whispering to each other, undoubtedly about her. Her eyes dart around wildly, her breathing unsteady and panicked, and she is seconds away from crying out for Stiles because he's been through panic attacks before and he would know what to do, but then she sees him.

He's standing in the trees at the edge of the cemetery, an unreadable expression on his face, and he's looking right at her. She startles, her breathing still jagged and strained. ''Derek?'' She drifts towards him, something invisible pulling her towards him. She hasn't seen him since the day after Jackson died and she has so many things to ask him, to scream at him for. She takes determined steps, fast and stumbling, pushing through the throngs of mourners. But then stupid fucking Greenberg gets in her way, cuts right in front of her, and when she shoves him roughly out of the way (because it's _Greenberg_ ), Derek is gone.

''This is why nobody likes you, Greenberg,'' Lydia snaps.

.

.

.

**/ii/**

cut _out all the ropes and let me fall_

.

.

.

_It's raining._

_It's raining, and there is blood on your hands from the gaping hole in his gut and there is blood bubbling out of his mouth, choking him, drowning him, taking him away from you and everything you planned together. There is so much blood. ''Jackson,'' his name falls from your lips in a sob and your trembling hands find his face. ''Oh my god.'' It comes out as a shrill sounding moan. ''Oh my god. Jackson,'' you say again, like a prayer. '_

_'L-Lydia,'' he gasps. ''Baby,'' and there he is, still trying to smile for you, comfort you by grasping your arm, even as he's lying there with his guts spilling out onto the forest floor. ''W-We...We've been h-here bef-before,'' he gurgles out weakly, a sick joke made around the blood in his mouth. ''Haven't we? ...Gotta stop... Gotta stop meeting like this.''_

_There is howling in the distance and snarling nearby. They won't get here in time, you know this. ''You're going to be fine,'' you say, a wish, a lie. ''Okay? You're going to be fine. Just stay with me, baby. Jackson!'' Your fingers dig into his cheeks. ''Fucking stay with me,'' you hiss at him. ''You promised to take me to Athens this summer, you asshole. Remember? It was going to be our last hurrah before...'' Before everything changes. ''You have to stay with me.''_

_He laughs. He actually laughs. '_

_'Jackson,'' you beg. ''Please.''_

_His hand slips from your arm and grasps at your shirt, and he twists it in his quickly weakening grip. He splays his hand out across your stomach and tries to speak. ''I...I...'' He meets your eyes and you can see a million things he's not saying in his bright eyes. ''I...''_

_You nod and you keep nodding. ''I know.'' You lean down to kiss his bloodied lips and you remember that one poem in that book of Allison's, the one that went **''sorry about the blood in your mouth, I wish it was mine''** and how you had scoffed and said the poet was more overdramatic than you are, but you get it now. You understand the words and what they mean and you wish you didn't. ''I know you do,'' you whisper. ''I love you, too. I love you so much. Please. ...Please hang on,'' you weep. ''Please don't do this.'' _

_He tries to say something else, he tries so hard, and he manages to get your name out, but he chokes on the rest of it. The hand on your stomach, smearing blood on your shirt, falls away and his eyes flutter shut. ''No!'' You let out a wail that startles even the way past crazy, rabid Alpha trying to beat Isaac to death. ''Jackson!'' You practically collapse against him, pressing yourself closer and closer to him and burying your face in the crook of his neck, fingernails digging into his shoulders. ''Jackson...''_

_From the shadows, there comes a deafening roar that you've grown used to over the past year and when you look up at the Alpha stalking towards you, there is a sudden blur of red eyes and leather and other unmistakably Derek Hale-like things and he is tackling the Alpha away from you._

_O_ _n the ground, several feet away, Gerard Argent lets out a groan as he begins to drift back into consciousness, pulled back into the land of the living by the feel of the rain pelting his face. You look at Jackson, lifeless and torn, and you look at Isaac, bloody and crumpled on the ground. You look at Gerard, Allison's grandfather, the man who used Jackson as a weapon during his kanima days and the man who just made Jackson his human shield against a pissed off Alpha._

_Amidst the sounds of Derek tearing the Alpha apart, the rain falling heavily, and the rest of the pack crunching on leaves, you crawl towards Gerard Argent._

.

.

.

Lydia wakes up crying and gasping in her lonely bed in her lonely house with the two parents who don't care. She tastes blood in her mouth, feels blood on her hands and cold rain on her skin, and hears Jackson choking on her name. She leans over the side of the bed and vomits into the trashcan.

.

.

.

She pulls up to the graveyard at midnight, wearing one of Jackson's shirts and shorts that are too short to be worn in January, with her feet stuffed into Ugg boots and her father's car keys clutched in her hand. She is Lydia Martin. She is the resident crazy girl, the one people still gossip about, the girl who was mauled, spent two days lost and naked in the woods, and freaked out in class. She figures what's another thing to add to the list. People have already made up their minds about her.

She barely even feels the winter air against her bare legs when she climbs out of the car, vision blurred by the tears in her eyes. She starts her hike through bone yard slowly, staggering slightly, but then she breaks into a run, sprinting through the frozen blades of grass until she gets to that fresh mound of dirt. ''Jackson,'' she pleads with him brokenly. ''Oh, god.'' Cries of panic tumble out, noisy and messy, and she falls to the ground on her hands and knees on the cold ground.

She almost feels a little upset with herself. Here she is, Lydia _'I don't need you'_ Martin, the same girl who loathes society for making girls think they need a man, and she's having a panic attack because of a boy. ...A dead boy. _Her_ boy. The boy she doesn't remember how to live without. She lurches forwards and curls her fingers into the dirt like she's curling her fingers into him. ''Jackson,'' she whispers. ''You stupid idiot,'' she hisses. ''How could you let yourself get distracted like that? How could you let that geriatric neanderthal use you as a shield? You were supposed to be stronger than that.'' She sobs miserably, staring at the dirt and the flowers. There is no marker yet, no gravestone with his name on it.

There's just dirt.

So much dirt.

''I'm sorry,'' she blubbers. ''I'm sorry. It wasn't your fault. It was mine, I know. It was my fault. Jackson,'' her voice breaks. ''Come back.'' It is a hopeless plea, she knows this, but it still manages to ignite a painful spark of hope inside her; like she believes if she screams loud enough, wishes hard enough, wants it - needs it enough, he'll claw his way out of the grave and come back to her. ''You have to come back,'' she screeches. ''We need you! And you promised, you useless bastard! You promised you wouldn't leave me!'' She sinks further, falling to pieces in the dirt and sobbing until she can't breathe. It's pathetic. She is pathetic. She is a mess, sitting here in the dirt ugly crying for all the world to see. It is a disgrace. Her father would tell her so. He would tell her she's embarrassing herself. He would tell her to act like a Martin, goddamn it.

''Jackson,'' she breathes out, crawling closer. ''Do you know? Do you know what I did to him? I did it for you.''

The grass crunches.

An irrational burst of frustration floods through her at the interruption and she lifts her eyes. Her mouths dries up. Lydia stares at the pair of boots in front of her and then slowly rakes her eyes upwards, up the jeans and the leather jacket, right up to the furious green eyes. She sits back in the grass and waits for him to yell at her about the dangers of Beacon Hills after dark. In her head, she is already preparing a speech, which mostly consists of _fuck off, Derek. I'm grieving._

But he doesn't yell. And he doesn't yell. And he _still_ doesn't yell.

''Why did you do it?'' She means for her voice to come out sounding hard and angry, but it comes out like a keening whine, something like a whimper. ''Why did you tell him to go after Gerard? Why _him_ , Derek? Why my Jackson?''

Instantly, his eyes seem to soften slightly, something akin to guilt flashing across his face. He sighs heavily. Without a word, he moves around the grave, over to her, and then he slips off his jacket and drapes it around her trembling shoulders. She swallows. With another sigh, this one more of an inconvenienced huff, he crouches down to gather her scattered belongings, slipping her cell phone into one of the pockets on his jacket and clutching the car keys.

''What are you doing?'' She whispers, pulling his jacket tighter around her body.

''I'm taking you home,'' he snaps impatiently, before his large hand is closing around her wrist and he's yanking her to her feet.

''No!'' She stubbornly digs her heels into the ground and tries to wrench free of his grasp, but he won't let her. ''No, please! I can't leave Jackson!''

''Lydia,'' Derek whips around to glare down at her. There is something strange and powerful hidden behind the frustration and annoyance and it makes her gasp. ''It's the middle of the night, it's January, and you're not wearing any pants. I am _taking. You. Home_.''

She peers up at him with her big round glistening eyes. ''I don't want him to be alone.''

His jaw clenches. ''Jackson is _dead,_ '' he grinds out harshly. ''Are you trying to join him?''

Rage swells in her gut and she squares her shoulders, glaring up at him defiantly, drawing herself up to her full height. That lasts about three seconds before her facade cracks right down the middle and she is left a quivering mess.

Derek holds his ground for a minute longer and then he too cracks, allowing a small sliver of an emotion she can't quite put her finger on to show in his eyes. ''Lydia,'' he says her name again, softer this time, almost gently, which is monumental because Derek doesn't generally do gentle. ''You need to start taking better care of yourself.''

She snorts and wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of Jackson's shirt. ''Why?''

''You know exactly why.'' She raises her head, eyes widening. He stares right back. She winds her arms around her middle, because she feels like she's falling apart, pieces of her scattering everywhere, into the dirt, where Jackson is, and she desperately tries to keep herself glued together. She throws one last look over her shoulder and then she closes her eyes and exhales. ''...Take me home.''

.

.

.

Derek doesn't have a whole lot of patience for her usually. That wouldn't sound strange, if you know Derek Hale. Or rather, if you _think_ you know him. Most people think that he has no patience, what with all the growling and the scowls. That's really just what he lets most people believe. Contrary to popular belief, Derek actually has a stunning amount of patience. He kind of has to. His pack is a bunch of teenagers. And one of them is Stiles. He has patience. It's just all wrapped up in attitude and frowns and angst. Lydia Martin, though, (and maybe Stiles) is a special case.

She is too jittery, too perky, too much of a smart ass know-it-all, too much of a bitch. Sure, he saves her life when he has to, because whether he likes it or not, she's part of the pack, and he is eternally annoyed when she saves his life, but normally, he hardly even bothers to look at her. This is just Derek. It's nothing personal. Lydia knows this. She's gotten used to it. He's the Alpha. She's the girl who knows everything (because let's face it: she _does_ ) and who flits around with Stiles, helping the rest of the werewolves to _not_ flunk out of high school and making sure that they eat properly because they're not only growing teenagers but growing _fucking werewolves_. She and Stiles are the Pack Moms. It's something she actually sort of likes, even though she had honestly thought she had no maternal bone in her body. It shouldn't surprise her. She has always loved bossing people around.

She and Derek...

They're not friends. They just _are._

But tonight, when he drives her home, he keeps looking at her like he wants to say something, like he's worried about her, like he _cares._ It's unnerving. Although he does keep glancing at her bare legs and shaking his head with this deeply annoyed look on his face. It's his _how is it possible for one person to be surrounded by this many idiots_ look. But he also cranks the heat up full blast and lets her keep his jacket. He pulls her father's car into the driveway, hands her the keys and orders her to go straight inside, take a hot shower and then get straight under the blankets. If it were a better day, she would scowl and tell him that she isn't one of his betas and he can't tell her what to do because she does what she goddamn wants to. Tonight, however, she is too cold and too tired to argue.

She slips back into her big house where her parents haven't even realized she was gone and puts her father's car keys back where they belong. Prada is the only one who even missed her, yipping quietly and jumping at her. She takes an extra hot, extra long shower and puts on something that isn't full of graveyard dirt.

Derek's jacket is lying haphazardly on her bed. She glides over to her window to check the lock before she crawls back into bed, and her eyes catch sight of a black Camaro across the road, parked resolutely on the side of the road. She sighs and her hands fall away.

She leaves the window unlocked. Just in case.

His jacket stays on the bed, like a safety blanket.

.

.

.

**/iii/**

_so tell me when you hear my heart stop_

.

.

.

Her father makes her go back to school a mere three days after the funeral because he ''won't have a slacker for a daughter.'' ...Yeah. Her father is kind of an asshole. She really wishes her parents hadn't reconciled. Most girls her age would probably be beyond relieved if their parents scrapped their divorce and got back together, complete with lots of loud, unfortunate sex. She is not most girls. She has never been _most girls_. She thinks that she and her mother were better off.

Honestly, Lydia doesn't care about school. That's such a horrid thing to say for a girl like her. She used to love school. Not only did it mean time away from her parents, but she genuinely liked school. And this is her senior year. She should be working extra hard, graduating with honors, campaigning for prom queen, prepping for university. A few months ago, she was determined to make this the best year ever.

Now, she can honestly say that she doesn't give a shit anymore. What's it matter? She's going to be stuck in this town for the rest of her life anyway.

Lydia does everything in her power to get out of going to school. All she wants to do is curl up in bed and stay there, with Jackson's clothes and his house key and the pictures of them she has all over her room. She doesn't want to have to walk into that school without him, or sit through all the classes they had together and stare at the empty spot where he should be, or sit at their lunch table without his arm draped around her shoulders. She doesn't want the pity or the stares, the inevitable whispering behind her back or the fake sympathy. Just the thought of school makes her stomach churn. But her father remains resolute and unshakable. She _will_ be going to school and she _will_ be working hard and she _will_ be going to Yale (even though he knows it's always been her dream to go to Harvard and what is this, Gilmore Girls?)

Unfeeling bastard.

She walks into school with Allison's fingers threaded through hers, flanked by Scott and Stiles, and everyone stops when she walks through the doors. Well, that's nice. Talk about Deja Vu. Within seconds, trickles of people are weaving their way to her and telling her how sorry they are, that Jackson was such a great guy, and are you okay? Do you need anything? It makes her sick. Not just because some of the girls have the absolute tackiest taste in perfume, but because every word she hears, every condolence, every _I'm sorry_ is agonizingly fake. It's overwhelming and no matter how many glares Allison and Scott send out through the crowds, people just keep coming, treating her like she's a poor pitiable widow.

Seconds before she loses her composure, Boyd and Erica saunter through the crowd and Boyd lazily pulls the fire arm.

...And that's all before first period.

She makes it through the morning, because she's got Allison trading notes with her and Scott keeping one bleeding heart eye trained on her, and she even makes it through lunch because she's got Stiles talking incessantly about The Avengers, which is more comforting than anything else in the world could be, she thinks, and Erica and Boyd keep everyone else at bay by scowling at them. Isaac still hasn't been back to school since the Alpha nearly killed him.

Then comes that one class that she had been dreading all day long. The one without Allison, without Stiles, without stoic but oddly comforting werewolves, and with one achingly empty seat right beside her. To her credit, she doesn't skip the class like she should, like everybody thinks she's going to. She goes, she sits down in that seat, with Jackson's empty chair next to hers, and she does her best to keep her head held high and ignore all of the eyes on her.

She makes it precisely ten minutes into the class before she has to dash out of the classroom to go throw up.

.

.

.

Erica is lounging against the counter, scrutinizing her nails, when Lydia exits the stall looking green and shaky. Because she has a tendency to get a bit bitchy when she's not at her best, Lydia has to physically swallow down a sneer and a rude comment about Erica's poor fashion taste being eerily reminiscent of Christina Aguilera's 'Dirrty' days. She sticks her nose up, sucks in a gulp of air, and pushes her hair out of her face, moving confidently over to the sink, like everything's a-okay. She is perfectly aware that she and Erica have a volatile frenemy relationship and being all fucked up isn't going to change that, but she doesn't particularly want to deal with Erica's condescending attitude right now.

The blonde stares at Lydia through her eyelashes, towering over petite five foot three Lydia in her red come-fuck-me (entirely inappropriate for school) heels. She doesn't say anything, but Lydia can feel Erica's eyes on her, watching intently as Lydia quickly rinses out her mouth and grabs a paper towel. Erica pushes herself up onto the counter, throws one bare leg over the other (that mini skirt is another thing that is way too inappropriate for school - even Lydia knows that, and she's Queen of the Mini Skirts) and pulls out a nail file.

Lydia smirks, a quip about claws sharp on her tongue.

''You should try peppermint tea,'' Erica says, without looking up, cutting the other girl off before she has a chance to speak.

Lydia freezes. ''What?''

''Peppermint tea,'' Erica repeats slowly, as if talking to a small child. She frowns down at one of her nails. ''It helps with the nausea. My aunt swore by it when she was - ''

''I don't know what you're talking about,'' Lydia huffs.

Erica rolls her eyes and looks down at Lydia with her nose scrunched up. ''Oh, cut the bullshit, Princess. Don't try to con a werewolf. You reek of it.''

''You shouldn't sniff people without their consent. It's rude.'' Even as she says it, Lydia is sagging against the wall and feels like crying. She blinks and has to fold her arms to keep herself from raking a hand through her hair and ruining all that work she did to make herself look at least somewhat presentable, despite the paleness and the permanently bloodshot eyes. ''Great. Does that mean the rest of you fluffers know?''

''Well, Derek knows,'' Erica says with a shrug. ''But he's Derek and he's a giant six foot tall creeper, so he probably knew before you did.''

''And Scott, Isaac and Boyd?'' Erica stares down at her for a minute, lips pinched, and then she hops off the counter and slips her nail file away. ''They know you smell different,'' she says plainly. ''They don't know why.''

Lydia nods and lets out a breath. She licks her lips slowly and leans back against the wall, squeezing her eyes shut and willing her life to be not fucked up and ruined. God, when did her life become a CW soap opera? This is so not how she imagined her senior year going. She can still feel Erica's searching eyes on her. Cautiously, she opened one eye and glances up at Erica. She pushes off the wall. ''Erica - ''

''I won't tell anyone,'' the not-as-intimidating-as-usual She Wolf assures her quietly. ''This is your secret, Lydia. Your life. Your body. Jesus,'' she flicks her long blond hair over her shoulder, wrinkling her nose in offense. ''Even I'm not that much of a bitch.''

Lydia wrangles up a weak smile, and thinks it's a miracle that she did. ''Thanks.''

Erica shrugs. ''Whatever.'' She starts to sashay over to the door, only to stop in the doorway and throw a small smile over her shoulder. ''Remember,'' she says. ''Peppermint tea.''

Lydia nods. ''Peppermint tea,'' she promises.

.

.

.

Huh.

Did she really just have an actual conversation with Erica Reyes?

Apparently, even after werewolves and other assorted things that make their life _Buffy: The Vampire Slayer_ , life can still surprise her.

.

.

.

**/iv/**

_come on, come out, come_ _here, come here_

.

.

.

She skips out of school as soon as the nausea passes, sending a quick text to Allison, feigning a headache, and she makes big plans to go home, curl up in bed with Prada and her collection of Ryan Gosling movies, because all she wants to do lately is sleep. Instead, she finds herself taking her mother's car straight to the Hale house.

For the past six months, Derek and the rest of the pack have been working on rebuilding the huge massive mountain of a house and there is still an insane amount of work to be done. This is unsurprising considering it was a burnt out shell with the top floor all but caved in, but she gets the feeling that Derek is starting to wish he had just knocked the whole damn thing down and started fresh.

She approaches the house quietly, parking her mother's car at the end of the gravel driveway and hiking the rest of the way there. She is clutching Derek's jacket in her hands tightly, to keep them from shaking. Her stealth skills are apparently not up to par, because Derek is waiting for her on the dilapidated porch, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. He is dirty and sweaty - despite the fact that it's January - and tired looking and _why_ does she _always_ have to stumble across him when he looks like _that?_ Within seconds of that inane thought, she feels a crushing tidal wave of that ever present guilt and grief and sorrow, so painful that it makes her entire body clench. She clenches her teeth to keep her screams in.

''Lydia,'' he says, and drops the rag.

She hates how he makes her name sound like a punishment. She doesn't even have a witty remark to callously throw back at him. She's too tired. ''I brought your jacket back,'' she says, thrusting the coat at him.

He takes it, but he also takes her hand and practically lifts her off the ground - ignoring her ''eep'' of surprise - and helps her over rotted wood and onto the porch. She tries not to think about how it was going to be Jackson's job to replace the front steps.

''Shouldn't you be in school?'' He asks her, turning away from her. ''Education is important, Lydia,'' and there he goes again, saying her name, saying her name like it's a different word altogether; she just hasn't quite worked out if that word is good or bad yet.

She chuckles dryly and leans back against a rotting pillar. The fabric of her pea coat catches on splinters and snags the material. She doesn't even jerk back with a shriek about how expensive it was. ''Says the guy who flat out refuses to get his GED.'' Even though he is clearly much more intelligent than he lets on.

''Education is important to _you,_ '' he amends.

She feels a painful wave of bitterness wash over her. ''There were a lot of things that were important to me.''

His jaw tightens. He won't look her in the eye. ''You shouldn't be here,'' he says eventually.

''Where should I be?'' She wants to know - she _desperately_ wants to know.

He doesn't give her the answers she's looking for. ''Not here. Breathing in all of the dust and mold isn't good for - ''

The unstable wood creaks and groans under the weight of a body and when Lydia turns her head, Isaac is looming in the doorway, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, head down. His body language is hesitant and closed off. She can see the outlines of fading bruises on his face. She stills. She hasn't properly seen Isaac since that night, when he was nearly beaten to death by an Alpha, when the pack nearly lost two of it's members. She saw him briefly the day after, but she was practically catatonic and he was out of commission, nearly unrecognizable, laid up in bed with Stiles and Derek hovering over him. Both of her hands fly to her mouth when she sees him and tears sting painfully at her eyes.

Wounds inflicted by an Alpha (especially a crazed, _rabid_ one) do not heal as fast as other wounds. Isaac was beaten within an inch of his life, into a bloody, messy pile of flesh and bones. He still walks with a limp, there are still cuts and bruises littering his skin, and when he raises his head ever so slightly and she sees the dark bags under his eyes, she knows it's not just the physical wounds that will take some time to heal.

''Hey, Lydia,'' he greets shyly.

She drops her hands and rushes at him, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into a hug because...well, because it's Isaac and he's a giant five year old. He is totally making up for his shitty pre-bite life by being Alpha Dad's favourite and having everyone else adore him because again: _literally_ a puppy. Like, seriously.

He seem reluctant to hug her back, shuffling from foot to foot awkwardly, and then he cautiously wraps his arms around her and winds up leaning into the embrace like she's all he's got, nuzzling his face into her hair. She runs her fingers through his curls briefly and lets a few tears slip out of her eyes, reminded, again, just how massively unfair that night was for everyone. ''Lydia,'' he squeaks out, voice tight and small. ''I'm so sorry. I should have - ''

She pulls away from the embrace and cups his face, thumb gently grazing a yellowing bruise under his eye. ''Isaac,'' she says in her best Stiles-trying-to-get-the-pack-to-eat-healthier voice. ''I am _really_ glad you're okay.''

He smiles.

It's a start.

She wipes the tears away and loops her arm through his, turning her eyes back over to Derek, voice sharper than before. ''Hale,'' she gripes. ''Tell me you're feeding him something other than whatever you can grab at the service station.''

Derek actually looks taken aback by that, opening his mouth only to shut it again, flabbergasted. ''I am not his parent,'' he manages to sputter out, lacking the venom she's sure he's going for.

She puckers her lips and deadpans, ''Aren't you, though?''

''Stiles brings me food,'' Isaac says, before Derek has the chance to growl. ''And Scott still drops by once a week with a casserole from his mom. This week it was lasagna and Derek let me have the edge pieces. The edge pieces are the best.''

Derek shakes his head and grumbles, looking up at the sky through the hole in the roof. ''You are a _toddler_ ,'' he says.

Lydia nods, satisfied, but allows herself to fall deeper into the Pack Mom mentality, grateful for something to distract her from the mind numbing grief and agonizing pain. ''And your homework?''

''Boyd brings it every day.''

She flicks accusing eyes to Derek. ''Math and history,'' she says pointedly. ''I haven't been around to play tutor.''

Derek's shoulders are slumped but tense and his facial expression is miserable, like he's caught somewhere between annoyance and defeat, inches and seconds away from resigning himself to the fact that his life basically consists of playing house. Really, though, it's about time he gets over himself and accepts that this is his life. It's his own fault for running around biting awkward and messed up teenagers left and right. There is a brief moment where all she wants to do is scoff, roll her eyes and flip her hair, like she would have done a month ago when everything was perfect. ''I've got it covered,'' he says stiffly. For someone who appears to have no paternal instinct whatsoever, he sure does look offended at the implication that his parenting skills are not up to code.

''Well,'' she sniffs. ''Excuse me for being concerned, but I have to be. It's my job as the Pack Mom,'' she stresses.

That same unidentifiable something that she saw in the graveyard passes through his eyes again and he momentarily looks like he's been gutted by a poison arrow, or maybe like he's going to puke, but he ducks his head before she can attempt to decipher it. ''Stop fucking calling yourself that,'' he huffs out. ''It's bad enough that _Stiles_ calls himself that.''

Isaac smirks. ''Stiles only calls himself that because he knows you hate it.''

Derek rolls his eyes again and seems to decide, right then and there, that he has better things to do with his time. Grasping his jacket loosely, he flings it over one shoulder and saunters past them, brushing against Isaac's shoulder in that curiously deliberate way of his. ''Isaac,'' he calls out over his shoulder, without looking back at them. ''Make sure she gets home safely.''

And then he's gone, melting back into the shadows of the burnt up house that he refuses to give up on.

.

.

.

She winds up back down the driveway, away from the house and away from Derek, leaning against the rear bumper of her car with Isaac standing beside her. The sky above them is gray and there is a chill in the air, a biting wintery cold. He is kicking rocks because he doesn't know what to say. She keeps her arm looped through his and threads her fingers through his. She tries to tell herself that it's for him, that it's to comfort him, because he's everyone's favourite puppy, but really, it's for her.

They have been standing in silence for the past five minutes when he turns to her suddenly and says, completely out of the blue, ''You know, I think you would have liked my brother.'' And it's a big deal. She recognizes that, because he never talks about his brother.

Her lips part in surprise and her eyes widen, but when she looks at him, she manages to pull a thin sad smile over her lips. ''Yeah?''

He nods slowly. ''He was better at this. Comforting. _Solace._ He wasn't like me, he didn't talk like Stiles, didn't run himself ragged trying to fix things that couldn't be fixed like Scott, didn't have that pity in his eyes like Allison. He... He was just _there._ You know? He had this silent way of looking at you - just looking - and making you feel safe. If you were hurt or upset, he would just sit with you quietly, and he wouldn't say much, because he wasn't much for talking, but he would be there. In case.'' He pauses, looking thoughtful, and then his eyes widen and he blinks in surprise, as if he has just had some major epiphany and now knows the secrets of the universe. ''Actually,'' he says. ''He was kind of like Derek. ...He was _a lot_ like Derek.''

Which, in hindsight, is a revelation that explains _so much._

Isaac gives her a tiny half smile. ''He would be better at this,'' he says again.

Lydia sucks in a breath and looks down at the ground. There is gravel in her mouth, thick in her throat and she can't breathe around it. She squeezes her eyes shut and waits for it to pass, inhaling deeply when the gravel lets her. She leans in to rest her chin on his shoulder and meets his eyes when he turns his head to look at her. ''Don't sell yourself short, Lahey,'' she says. ''I think you're doing better than you realize.''

His lips flicker into the shadow of a smile. It fades almost instantly and he looks away, kicking at rocks and licking his lips. ''Lydia,'' he says, after a moment of silence. ''You smell different.''

She blinks. ''...Thanks?''

He purses his lips and tilts his head to the sky. ''It's not a bad kind of smell,'' he says. ''I don't think. It's not like a sickness kind of smell. It's more like a... I don't know how to describe it. Like there's more of you. Derek told me to shut up when I asked him if he could smell it. Told me to stop thinking so much. But,'' he looks at her, eyes worried. ''You're not, right? Sick?''

She chews on her lip and pulls away from him a little bit. ''No,'' she sighs. ''I'm not sick.'' And then it all comes spilling out. ''It's probably just because I'm pregnant.''

They both freeze.

As soon as the words fall out of her mouth, for the first time since she found out, her eyes widen and she feels a whoosh of agony as it all sinks in. Isaac's eyes have gone as wide as saucers. ''You're - _oh_.'' His voice comes out sounding squeaky. He scrambles off the bumper and stands straight, staring at her with his mouth working silently. ''D-Does Derek know?''

She pushes off the car and plants one hand on her hip, because of course that would be his first question.

''Sorry,'' he waves a hand. ''I don't mean... I'm not implying that he's the... It's just that would explain some, uh,'' he clears his throat, ''new habits of his.''

Oh, why does that make her want to squirm? ''New habits?'' She echoes. ''Such as?''

''Well,'' he mumbles, more to himself than to her, under his breath. ''Certainly explains the recent rash of wall punching.''

''What?''

''He's been watching you,'' he confesses.

''Watching me?'' She folds her arms over her stomach. ''Isaac.'' She pinches the bridge of her nose. ''Define Derek's version of watching someone. Is it like a 'oh, if I happen to run into Lydia today, I'll be sure to keep an eye on her' kind of watching? Or is it like an 'Edward Cullen is watching you while you sleep' kind of watching? ...Which can also be defined as stalking.''

''Um.'' He looks greatly pained. ''Do I have to pick one of those?'' When she huffs and tosses an indignant glare in the direction of the house, he hurries to explain. ''It's not a stalker thing,'' he assures her. ''It's an Alpha thing. You're part of his pack and he's just been keeping a closer eye on you, that's all. He's... He seems worried.'' He shrugs and stuffs his hands into his pockets. ''I just thought it was because - '' He stops abruptly and clamps his mouth shut firmly, frowning deeply and fidgeting uncomfortably.

''Because...?''

''Nothing. Nevermind. Lydia - ''

''You can't tell anyone,'' she blurts out, because she's just had an awful vision of everyone finding out and looking at her with pity marking their faces like scars. She fixes her hands over her stomach protectively and feels her breathing hitch. ''Isaac - ''

''Okay.'' He moves forwards and she manages a miniscule victory in the way she only twitches lightly when he moves, instead of a full on flinch. He wraps his arms around her carefully, like she is glass, sighing quietly. ''I won't tell anyone,'' he vows. ''I promise.''

She closes her eyes and relaxes. When she eventually does pull away, she touches his cheek briefly and then has to turn away so he doesn't see the tears running down her cheeks.

.

.

.

Isaac asks her, before she leaves, ''Did Jackson know?''

And she has to remember everything all over again.

The look on his face when she flipped over the Clear Blue test and shakily announced that it was positive. There was panic, at first, but then there was something else; something that lit up his eyes so beautifully that she could hardly believe it. Hope. Idiotic happiness, foolish joy, like he was so happy - ecstatic, really - about the prospect of having a future with her, a baby, a son or a daughter, despite how young they were. She remembers that she hadn't seen him that hopeful in years.

(A week later, he was dead.)

''Yes,'' she whispers out, car keys dangling from her limp fingers. ''He knew.'' Then she smirks, full of bitterness and sorrow and wasted futures. ''You know what he did when I told him?'' Isaac swallows.

''...What?''

''He asked me to marry him.'' She licks her lips. ''I said yes.''

From the distance, the house that Derek built, a loud, spectacular crash sounds, and Lydia jumps.

Isaac releases a breath. Doesn't look surprised at all. ''You should head home,'' he tells her quietly, and kisses her forehead.

.

.

.

**/v/**

_and i cannot get you out_

.

.

.

(Isaac leans against the doorframe of one of the upstairs bedrooms, unsurprised and unfazed by the destruction before him. Inside the bare room, Derek is breathing heavily, all wolfed out and wrecked, hands and fingers bleeding because he has just knocked down a wall with his bare hands. Isaac gnaws on his thumbnail. ''What are you doing?''

When Derek turns towards him, he's shifted back and he is trying too hard to look nonchalant. It's _shameful._ ''Boyd and Erica want a bigger room.''

Isaac laughs in his face. ''Uh- _huh_.'' He absently reaches up to run his fingers over a bruise on his cheek. ''And they say _I'm_ the damaged one.'' He pushes off the frame and takes a cautious step forwards. ''Derek,'' he tries. ''Jackson - ''

''Isaac,'' Derek snarls. ''I don't want to talk about Jackson.'' All Isaac hears is _I don't want to talk about the boy I got killed,_ because he knows - he _knows_ \- that's what Derek is thinking. ''Okay,'' he agrees easily. ''Then let's talk about Lydia. You know, the girl you've recently discovered is your - '' This time, when Derek growls, Isaac has no choice but to shut up, shrinking back slightly. He sighs again, resigned. ''You don't have to go through everything alone,'' he says quietly. It only feels like he's talking to Camden a little bit.

Derek says, ''Isaac.'' It comes out sounding gruff and ragged, like his throat is full of glass and blood. ''You have homework.'' It's not a question.

Isaac bows his head. ''Fine,'' he murmurs tiredly. ''But if you don't calm down,'' he adds, on his way out. ''I'm calling Stiles.'')

.

.

.

_And ''Baby,'' I'll tell her_  
''don't keep your nose up in the air like that  
I know that trick,  
you're just smelling for smoke so you can follow  
the trail back to a burning house so you can find  
the boy who lost _everything in the fire_  
to see if you can save him.''  
\- **sarah kay; b**


	2. the distance between two points

_''I know you think this world is too dark to even dream in color,_  
 _but I've seen flowers bloom at midnight.''_   
**\- andrea gibson; the moon is a kite**   
  
.  
  
.  
  
.  
  
 **/vi/**

_but you won't let me let you go_

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.

.

Lydia is not sure how it happens, or when it happens, or why it happens, but when she climbs the stairs after another awkward family dinner - where her mother tried too hard and her father drank too much - and enters her bedroom, Derek's leather jacket is flung across her bed. She sighs heavily, body slumping. ''Of _course_.''

The next day, she shoves it at Boyd and orders him to ''tell your Alpha I am no one's damsel.''

The jacket is draped across her computer chair when she gets home. The day after that, after another failed attempt, it's hanging on the back of her door. Day after that, it's in her closet, mingling with all of her dresses. It's at that moment, while she stands there, blinking, staring at the jacket in between pink and green, that she gets it.

To tell you the truth, she's a little embarrassed it took her that long.

.

.

.

Isaac looks surprised when he opens the door and finds her standing there, wearing the jacket over her loose fitting purple dress and black tights. ''Lyd - ''

''Hi, Isaac.'' She breezes past him, barely giving him a weak smile. She eyes the apartment critically, disappointed when she sees absolutely no trace of Derek. That's unfortunate. She had been so looking forward to the look on his face when he saw her wearing his stupid jacket. ''Well,'' she says. ''Where is he?''

Isaac's eyes move up, over her shoulder. ''Um.''

She turns her head slightly and purses her lips at the sight of a broad chest. She doesn't even startle at the fact that Derek is nearly pressed into her back, breathing down on her neck. She scoffs instead. ''Because _naturally_ ,'' she hums out, carefully stepping away from him.

''Lydia,'' he says, and there it is again. Right on cue.

She looks at him silently, regarding him closely for a minute. She's waiting for him to say something about the jacket. Scowl at her. Order her to take it off. Just acknowledge it. She stands there, fiddling with the sleeve, but he remains stubborn and keeps his eyes locked on hers. She gives up. ''This - '' she holds out her leather clad arms '' - is a scenting thing, isn't it?''

His lips twitch. ''Yes.''

''Riiight, and why are you scent marking me? I'm not a fire hydrant.''

''And I'm not a Pomeranian named Mr. Snuffles - ''

''That's oddly specific,'' Isaac cuts in.

Pressing his lips together, Derek slides his gaze to Isaac, who quickly makes a flimsy excuse to escape, muttering something about homework and laundry before he disappears.

''Derek,'' Lydia stomps her foot. ''Tell me why you're acting like a possessive neanderthal.''

He apparently takes offense to that, eyes flashing red. ''Because,'' he says. There's an uncomfortably long pause and she starts to think that's all he's going to give her. ''Right now you're the weakest member of the pack,'' he finishes. He says it so plainly, so matter-of-factly.

She feels a rush of offense and her cheeks flush in anger. ''Hey! I am not suddenly some fainting weak damsel just because I'm pregnant! Women have been having babies for - ''

He heaves a put upon sigh. ''It's not because you're pregnant,'' he bites out. ''It's because you're grieving.''

She full on stops. One hand automatically flies to her chest, over her heart. It has become second nature for her to begin clawing at her chest in those dark moments, when it all hurts so much, when she feels like she's dying.

''There are certain people out there who will exploit that,'' he says. ''They'll use it against you. I won't let them.'' He says it with a whole lot of conviction.

She has to stare at the floor to catch her breath. ''Oh.'' ''Besides,'' he tacks on. ''In case you've forgotten, this town is - _apparently_ \- a revolving door of supernatural creatures. It's best for you - _and_ your baby - to have the scent of an Alpha on you. If trouble comes to town - which it _will_ \- you'll smell like me, and they'll know you're mine.''

She raises her eyes from the ground slowly. ''Yours?''

His eyes flicker. ''Yes. Part of my pack.''

She decides maybe it would be best to let him win this one. Just this once. ''I - '' She throws him a scowl of her own, although it's not quite as intimidating as his (almost though - she is still Lydia Martin and she _can_ scare Derek Hale, she knows she can). ''Ugh. Fine.'' She blows out a breath and rubs her forehead. Dealing with him can be so tiring sometimes. ''I should go,'' she sighs, eyes shut tightly. ''I have to go have dinner with my parents and try not to vomit all over my mother's centerpiece.'' She draws in a deep breath and tries to straighten her posture in an attempt to regain some of that untouchable facade she once had. ''I appreciate you trying to protect me.''

''It's not about you,'' he denies harshly - perhaps a little too harshly. ''It's my job.''

She rolls her eyes. ''What _ever_ , Derek.'' She spins on her heel and flounces over to the door.

''Lydia.''

She stops with one hand on the doorknob. So close. ''Yes?''

He pauses and then takes a few steps towards her. She can feel him getting closer to her. ''You're _wearing_ the jacket.''

She turns to face him. ''Yes,'' she pinches her lips and clears her throat. ''Well. Will it keep me and my child safe?''

He hesitates. ''It'll keep you safe... _er_.''

She feels a half hearted lazy smirk pull at her lips. ''Will it get you to stop lurking around my house at all hours of the night? Because I think my mother is starting to think you're casing the place. FYI, a Camaro isn't exactly the most inconspicuous car. In my opinion, anyway.''

A slow, crawling smirk of his own weaves across his lips, rivaling hers. ''Cute.''

She really needs to go. She gets one foot out the door before she stops, heart thudding nervously. ''You know, it's funny.'' She keeps her voice low and doesn't dare to turn her head. ''Everyone is grieving right now. The whole pack. But nobody feels it quite like we do.'' She runs her tongue over her teeth and finally turns back around. She remains silent for a moment, watching the way his eyes darken with guilt and grief. He shields his face from her. ''I never said thank you,'' she rasps out.

He looks up, startled. ''For what?''

She sniffles. ''Look, Derek, that whole Kanima thing...'' She swallows and swipes at her eyes. ''Jackson carried that with him. He did. It was impossible not to. He had so much guilt for...for everything. But after... He may have acted like an ungrateful jerk half of the time,'' she chuckles slowly, ''and he may not have been the best beta in the world. And God knows he wouldn't have admitted it in a million years because of his precious reputation. ...But he was happy here. With the pack.'' She nods decisively and offers him a fleeting, feeble smile. ''Happier than he had been in a long time. He was building something. Something he hadn't let himself have for so long. You may have made mistakes in the beginning, Derek, but you gave him that. You're a good Alpha.'' She gives him another smile, watery and sad, but genuine, full of heart. ''You're a good _man_. I just... Thank you.'' She can't catch her breath. ''Thank you for that.''

She's gone before he can speak.

.

.

.

Here is what she didn't say, what she won't say, what she'll never say: _You saved his life. I killed him._

.

.

.

**/vii/**

_can you make it feel like home?_

.

.

.

She is not sure why - because he is nothing to her, not really; he is not her Alpha, not really her friend, not really anything - but for some reason it becomes a regular thing.

.

.

.

She shows up the next day with Stiles to help Isaac with his math and history, in an effort to pretend her life isn't currently in the process of unraveling and coming apart under her own touch. Derek isn't there at first, out doing whatever it is that he does (and what is it that he does? Does he have a job? Or does he basically just spend his days stalking minors?) but he shows up eventually, while Stiles is on the phone with his dad, explaining that he's going to be later than expected, and Isaac is getting ready to start pulling out his own hair.

Derek takes one look at Isaac, glances down at the practice test and all of the red ink, and presses his lips together. Without warning, he shoves the books aside and drops a pizza box on the table, taking in the sight of the three frazzled teenagers in front of him. ''Take a break,'' he orders. ''Eat. Right now.''

Isaac looks like he's going to start crying in relief.

Stiles mostly looks hungry, diving for the pizza and letting out an excited yelp of, ''Thank you, sweet baby Jesus! Food!''

Lydia, on the other hand, stares up at Derek with her legs crossed and her hands clasped. ''Derek,'' she starts, adding on a glare for added effect. ''Don't be a caveman. Nobody likes cavemen.''

''Lydia,'' he sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, probably to hide the way his lips twitch upwards for about a fraction of a second. But then he stops, takes a moment, looks at her for a startling amount of time without blinking, and says, ''Please eat something.''

She makes a triumphant noise in the back of her throat and nods slowly in approval. ''Better.''

Awed and amazed, Stiles leans his elbows on the counter and rests in chin in his hands. ''Teach me to be like you.''

.

.

.

The next day, she comes over for Isaac once more, after school, to console him about the test he's bombed. She winds up staying late, eating Chinese food, watching Dateline Real Life Mysteries and trading barbs with Derek.

The day after that, there's a pack meeting. After discussing a possible banshee situation, college, Allison and Scott's latest issues, and for some strange reason, the latest episode of How I Met Your Mother, Lydia hangs back with Scott and Allison for their Dinner With the Alpha and ends up proof reading both Scott and Isaac's homework and stealing food off of Derek's plate.

The possible banshee situation turns into a definite banshee situation soon after and then it's everyone to their battle stations. Suddenly, it's almost like life is nearly back to the way it was before with the shiny new Hale pack kicking ass and taking names, and this unnerves her. It bothers her; how everything is just going on, continuing on uninterrupted when Jackson isn't here to continue on with it. Sure, she takes back her throne of Queen of Lore, hunkering down with Stiles at his strangely creepy house to try and figure out how to kill a banshee, but none of it feels the same. It feels like everyone else is moving on with their lives, preparing for college, coping with their own grief, living life, and she is stuck somewhere behind them, feet planted in the mud, unable to move. They are all moving past her, away, and she can't. What it feels like is that some part of her died that night, too; in the rain, with Jackson and _sorry about the blood in your mouth_ and Gerard Argent.

They defeat the banshee like Knights defeat dragons, after she and Stiles find a way to banish the freaky bitch into oblivion, and they all slowly make their way back to the Hale house to lick their wounds, where Scott promptly announces that they need to have a celebration. They celebrate their victory by licking their wounds at the Hale house and coercing Derek into buying them beer, which only happens because Allison and Erica gang up on him and seriously, Allison and Erica should never ever team up. It's terrifying. They're like the two annoying younger sisters you never wanted.

Eventually, Derek grunts and tells Allison and Erica, very matter-of-factly, ''I hate you and everything you choose to be.'' And then he goes to buy them beer.

Lydia manages to make it through most of the night. She makes it through the speech about how much Jackson is missed, accepting condolences like the perfect little widow. She makes it through the subtle but undoubtedly _there_ couple atmosphere. She even snatches up a bottle of beer to keep up the appearances, through she never takes a sip of it. But there's only so much a girl can take. She winds up sitting on the porch with her back against the house, ankles crossed.

That's the thing about grief, you know. About missing them. The pain never stops, it is always there, under your skin, infused into your very being, but it's the quiet moments that kill. In the silence, you feel it the most. That ache, that missing half, that empty space beside you, in your heart and in your head. Lydia Martin has always hated being alone. Now she hates it even more.

She closes her eyes.

''I would've sucked at it.''

Her eyelids flutter open and she turns her head. Her entire body tingles. ''What?''

He shrugs, looking pensive as he stares out into the distance, squinting like he can see something she can't. ''All of it.'' He lets his head loll back to the side and his eyes lock with hers. She inhales. Licks her lips. ''Husband. Father. I would have been a disaster.''

She swallows. She can feel a tired, sad smile flickering over her lips. ''No, you wouldn't have.''

He laughs then, a beautiful eye crinkling, head tilted back laugh that makes her eyes water and her throat throb with pain. ''See, there you go again,'' he chuckles. ''You just keep doing that, don't you, baby?''

''Doing what?''

He sobers and looks right at her. She can feel him sitting beside her. His arm is brushing against hers. His very presence envelops her. How can this not be real? ''Believing in me,'' he says, softly.

''Always.'' Her throat closes up. There are sobs trying to climb out of her throat and she can't breathe properly. Her hands move, instinctively, to cradle her stomach. ''Jackson.'' His name is an exhale of breath; a plea, a prayer, a eulogy and a love letter all rolled into one. The tears overflow and run down her cheeks in rivulets and the sobs bubble over. She lets out a gulping cry of a laugh and her hands fall back to her lap. ''Do you think we would've made it to Athens?''

He brushes a hand over hers, fingertips grazing her skin, and she shivers a wonderful shiver. It feels like coming home. ''Lydia, we would've made it anywhere.'' Another sob tumbles out of her lips and he threads his fingers through hers. ''Someday,'' he says to her. ''You and I are going to make it to Athens.''

She smiles at him. ''Tell me that's a promise.''

''Oh, it's more than a promise, baby. It's fate. You and I,'' he squeezes her hand. ''Are fate.''

She doesn't think he could ever know how much that means to her.

''Lydia?''

And she is forced to open her eyes. For real, this time. There is no warm hand in her own, no shoulder brushing against hers, no dead boyfriend. She is sitting on the cold ground alone and aching. She lifts her eyes to Stiles. He is staring down at her with a soft, sweet expression on his face, sympathy and understanding illuminating his eyes in the dark. Her first instinct is to paste on a bright smile and tell him that she's fine. She doesn't think he would believe her if she tried. So she doesn't. She licks her lips and places her hands in her lap, avoiding his searching gaze.

Stiles doesn't hesitate to plunk himself down beside her, stretching out his long legs and burying his hands in the pockets of his red hoodie. Uncharacteristically, he doesn't say a word. But his shoulder bumps against hers and when she looks at him, big eyes practically pleading for him to give her some kind of comfort, he smiles at her and takes his hand out of his pocket to tangle it with hers. He is not Jackson, but he's Stiles and he's comfort all the same. She breathes in deeply, the scent of rain and dirt thick in the air, and leans her head on his shoulder. ''Thank you,'' she murmurs under her breath, after a peaceful moment of calm silence.

''Hey,'' he lifts a shoulder in a shrug. ''Us Pack Moms have to stick together.''

She forces out a watery laugh. ''...Can I ask you a question?''

He peers down at the top of her head. ''Absolutely.''

''How long until it gets better?''

Wrong question. He stills. She can feel his body tense and stiffen. She looks up at him and watches him swallow, Adam's apple bobbing, like he's trying to swallow all of the bad memories of hurt and pain. For a fraction of a second, she catches a glimpse of a totally different Stiles. One light years away from acerbic wit, quick lighthearted jabs and curly fries. This Stiles, the one with hollowed out eyes and a jaw clenched in sorrow, is the one who lost his mother, the one who constantly worries about his father's well being, health and safety, and the one who runs with wolves, caring not about his own safety but the safety of his pack. They say one man can't be an island. Clearly they - whoever _'they'_ are - have not met Stiles. ''You know I can't answer that, Lydia,'' he says, full of regret. ''Grief doesn't work that way. It's not cut and dry. It's one of those stupid things that's different for everyone, and it's something you can never prepare for.''

''I hate that,'' she whispers, and there are crystalline teardrops caught on her eyelashes.

He nods. ''...Yeah...''

''But it gets better,'' she says, with finality. ''The pain dulls. ...Right?''

He licks his lips slowly. ''You really want me to tell you?''

She moves her head from his shoulder and stares into his gravely serious eyes. She gulps nervously. She nods anyway. ''Tell me,'' she begs.

He gives her a look that says he would give anything not to have to tell her this. ''The truth, Lydia,'' he begins, in a certain tone of voice that reminds her of classrooms after dark with killers in the hall and school dances and Werewolf Problems. ''Is that you'll hollow out a space in your heart for him - you'll carve it out with your bare hands - and you'll carry him around with you for the rest of your life like a badge of honor, or maybe like a warning label. Some days, you'll pull out your own hair and scream into your pillow and your throat will still feel heavy and full of pain and grief. And you won't ever understand _why._ Why this happened, why it was him, why it had to happen to you, why it had to happen period. But you'll live. At first, it's automatic. Like muscle reflexes in coma patients. You'll live your life, fill awkward silences, go to school, critique people's fashion sense, watch Project Runway, fight supernatural critters in your downtime, eat, sleep, and do it all over again. And there'll be days where you wonder what the point is. If it even means anything anymore - which it does. Someone will tell you that. _I'll_ tell you that. And gradually, with time - with a lot of time - you'll find yourself smiling or laughing or enjoying the little things. And you won't ever let go Lydia. You won't. But you'll _go on_.''

His eyes sparkle like diamonds in the light, but his jaw is set and determined and he so obviously believes in everything he is saying to her that it makes her believe too; in him. She tries to say something, thank him, tell him that she hopes he's right, anything, but all that comes out is a high pitched whine sound. She is openly crying by the time he finishes. Not delicate, pretty tears trailing down her cheeks and making delicate, pretty tears either, but loud, gulping, messy sobs complete with gross snot and everything. Stiles doesn't seem to care, wrapping her up in his arms and letting her cry into his chest.

''I'm sorry,'' he says into her hair, a noticeable hitch in his voice. ''I wish I had something better to tell you.''

''No.'' She shakes her head and pulls away from him, accepting the tissue he hands her that he has seemingly conjured out of thin air. ''I like what you said,'' she assures him. She wipes away her tears, making her best attempt to mop up the mess, the loss of control, on her face. Her head aches from the crying and she's exhausted, every part of her feeling heavy, but she feels better. Things are - life is - a little bit clearer. She balls the tissue in her hand. ''People keep telling me that I'll feel better one day - like I'll wake up one morning and suddenly be happy. They keep telling me to think positively, keep my chin up, like I can choose not to grieve. Thank you for not bullshitting me.''

''I don't bullshit,'' Stiles says plainly, and then smirks. ''Much.''

She manages a half laugh, still trying to catch her breath. ''You're a good friend, Stiles.''

Instead of reacting like a wounded puppy dog like he would have a couple years ago, he grins in response to that and nods his head in agreement. ''I totally am, aren't I? Now, come on,'' he rises to his feet, movements languid and smooth, and offers her his hand. ''Get up off the dirty filthy ground. You are Lydia Martin, for God's sake. Derek Hale's termite eaten skeletal front porch is no place for your perfect self.''

She smiles again - this time a real genuine one that reaches her eyes - and takes his hand, allowing him to haul her to her feet. As soon as she's standing, he yanks her over to him and brings her in for one last hug, whispering in her ear a firm, ''You're still my fabulous, flawless Queen, you know that?''

She sighs into his shoulder and hugs him tight. ''And you're still my knight in shining armor.''

''Better freakin' believe it, girlfriend.'' He drops a kiss to her right temple and squeezes her hand gently before pulling away. ''We should definitely take over the world together sometime.''

She sniffs and does one of those hair flips. ''I'll clear my schedule.'' Then she holds her head high, and feels a cheeky little smirk crawl onto her lips for the first time in who knows how long. ''So, have you seen the new Downton Abbey...?''

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**/viii/**

_the distance between two points_

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Derek winds up driving her home sometime around eleven thirty, partly because he looks like he needs a few minutes of peace and quiet away from the rest of the rowdy pack, and partly because she digs her fingers into his lower back while the rest of the crazy people are embroiled in a frighteningly cut throat game of Twister and hisses in his ear, ''Take me home before this gets violent.''

Because it will get violent.

''This is,'' Stiles declares from his spot tangled around Isaac with his face in Erica's boobs, ''probably the closest I will ever get to an orgy. I'm sure of it.''

On the couch, holding the pointer, Boyd bursts into booming Boyd-like laughter and not even five seconds later, Scott breaks, dissolving into hysterical giggles, which sets off Isaac and then there is a chain reaction, resulting in a literal dog pile and Allison's triumphant victory lap. This event then leads to Erica completely losing her shit because apparently nobody else is allowed to win anything ever when Erica is present. Least of all Allison. Who Erica still has issues with. Probably doesn't help that Allison and Erica are both disturbingly competitive when it comes to board games, especially with each other. (Literally like sisters.)

Luckily, Derek manages to steer Lydia out of the house seconds before Erica throws the Twister box at the door and announces, in no uncertain terms, much to the dismay of everyone, that they are going to play Boggle and she is going to kick their asses because she is the Boggle Queen.

A few months ago, the simple act of Derek driving Lydia home would have been an extremely unusual and highly suspect occurrence. Now it is simply the new normal. She's grown used to the rest of the pack occasionally dropping in to check on her, but Derek is still the one who is the most constant visitor. Also the most silent visitor. But constant. Oddly enough, she finds she doesn't mind all that much. This is probably because he is the only one who doesn't ask her if she's okay or if she needs anything every two minutes.

There are lights on in the house when he pulls up in front and she lets out a disappointed breath at the sight. She had been hoping her parents would be asleep by now. It's been a long day full of banshees and breakdowns and she's not all that sure she's up to polite conversation.

Beside her, Derek is staring at her, studying her every movement, her every breath, the way her hands are resting comfortably on her stomach, the way she's biting her lip. It's like he's trying to read her like a book. ''Your parents don't know.'' It's not a question.

She scoffs. Keeps her eyes on her big perfect house that holds the tiny flawed family. ''They don't know anything,'' she spits out venomously. Perhaps a little too venomously. ''Sometimes I think my mother might suspect, but my father's clueless.'' She thinks about her father's callousness, his determination to live out his shattered dreams through her, his insensitivity towards anything Jackson... She presses her lips into a tight line. She remembers the way he acted after the funeral, like it didn't matter, like she didn't really love Jackson anyway, like she couldn't possibly know what love means at her age. She narrows her eyes. ''It's for the best,'' she says to the silence. ''My father's a jerk.''

Derek hums in thought and taps his fingers on the steering wheel. His eyes make their way over every inch of the house, lingering on the brightly lit windows, like he really is casing the place. ''My father's dead,'' he counters.

Lydia levels him with an unfaltering, unwavering stare. ''You win.''

His fingers stop drumming. He shakes his head. ''It's not a competition, Lydia.''

She leans in close to him and keeps her eyes on his, flat out refusing to let him look away from her with simple intensity and a pucker of her lips. '' _Everything_ is a competition.''

He looks away. Rolls his eyes. ''You should go inside.''

She shrugs carelessly, grabs her purse and reaches for the door handle, only to freeze suddenly as a thought violently slams into her. ''Derek...'' She pauses, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. ''Stiles told me that we carve out spaces in our heart for loved ones that we've lost.''

He tenses and his face does that thing where he looks homicidal but it's really just a front for a deep, oozing infection of pain. His fingers curl tightly around the steering wheel briefly and then fall limply. ''Stiles says a lot of things.''

''He said we carry them with us. Badge of honor or warning label.'' She automatically reaches for her neck where Jackson's key isn't and tries to swallow down that same sting of loneliness and emptiness that she is not convinced she will ever be able to shake. ''What are you?''

He doesn't look like he has an answer she'll like. ''I've carved out so much space in my heart for people that I've lost that I'm honestly surprised I still have even a piece of it left to call my own.'' He gives her a look, eyes hooded and dark, full of shadows. ''Trust me, I am way past the point of badge of honor _or_ warning label.''

''...What are you, then?''

He looks impossibly flummoxed. His eyes keep darting between her and the house. ''I don't know,'' he heaves a put upon sigh. ''A tornado? A time bomb? Something poetic and broken? Why are you asking me this?'' The tone of his voice rises slightly, growing annoyed.

She instantly raises her walls with a huff. ''I don't know,'' she snaps out defensively. ''I just thought maybe... I don't know, okay?''

''You're Lydia Martin. You don't say anything without knowing exactly what every syllable means,'' he fires back. She watches his eyes close and one hand comes up to rub at his forehead. ''I can't teach you how to be broken,'' he says quietly, almost inaudibly. ''How to live with grief. It's not something you learn. You just _do it_.''

She scowls and folds her arms like a petulant child, even as heat rises in her cheeks. ''I wasn't asking you to tell me how to live with - ''

''You're lying. I can hear your heart.''

''Well, stop listening to my heart! My heart is not yours to listen to. It's mine.''

''...Get out of my car, Lydia.''

And there is it again. That weird inflection in his voice when he says her name. Not a growl, not quite a whisper, but it's something. It's definitely something. It's... If he were anyone else, it almost might sound like fondness, affection, attraction; something akin to lustful fascination. But he's not anyone else, he's Derek, and that is the most illogical, ridiculous thought in the world. ''Why do you keep saying my name like that?'' She can't help but ask.

''Like what?''

''Like it hurts to say.''

He doesn't answer her. ''You need to go get some rest.''

''Ugh!'' She throws her hands up in the air. ''I am so sick of people constantly telling me to get some rest! I don't want to get some rest! I've had enough rest.''

He looks at her slowly. Such an odd thing - it sounds improbable. You can't look at someone _slowly._ You can only look at them. But everything about the way he looks at her - meeting her eyes first, then moving his gaze down to her chest; not her breasts, but where her heart is, where he can hear it beating - is slow and steady and careful. There is something about it, something about the way he leans in just barely closer, that is nearly animalistic. It's...different. ''Well, what is it that you _do_ want?''

Her chest tightens. There is a flare of pain that erupts inside of her like a volcano and she has to blink to keep it all from spilling over. ''I want Jackson,'' she says. ''I want my life to go back to normal. I want to not act like a zombie. I want to be happy. I want to be...'' Her shoulder slump. ''...Not alone.''

Derek says, very quietly, still looking at her slowly, ''You're not alone, Lydia.''

Her fingers claw at her neck, for the key, for Jackson. She says, breath catching, ''I have to go.''

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_The mornings will pass,_   
_the anguish will pass,_   
_other stones and sweat_   
_will bite into your blood--_   
_it won't always be like this._   
_You'll rediscover something._   
_Another morning will come_   
_when, beyond the clamor,_   
_you'll be alone on the lake._

_You are also love._  
 _Made of blood and earth_  
 _like the others. You walk_  
 _like the one who won't stray far_  
 _from your own front door._  
 _You watch like one who waits_  
 _and doesn't see. You are earth_  
 _that aches and keeps silent._  
 _You have bursts and lapses,_  
 _you have words -- you walk_  
 _and wait. Your blood_  
 _is love -- that's all._   
**\- cesare pavese; two poems for t**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own none of the characters you recognize nor any of the poetry/songs featured in this story.
> 
> vi: from Center of Attention by Jackson Waters  
> vii: from Born to Die by Lana Del Rey  
> viii: from the song of the same name by The Glitch Mob


	3. the center of attention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more of a snippet than a chapter - and I apologize for that - but I just wanted to let you all know that this story is still alive.

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_make a list_   
_of everything that's_   
_ever been_

_on fire_

**\- michael dickman; nervous system**

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**/ix/**

_the center of attention_

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Lydia used to sneak Jackson into her house at night.

Sure, she spent quite a few nights at his house and logically speaking, it made more sense to have their sleepovers at his house given that she had a key and his parents were far more lenient when it came to their relationship, provided that they made sure Lydia and Jackson were being careful. (Which they apparently were not - according to her soon-to-be burgeoning waistline.) But Lydia loved her closet and hated being away from it, especially in the mornings, so they devised a clever routine. Jackson would put his super handy werewolf skills to use and climb in through her window at night and then wake up early to climb back out.

It was an overly complicated system, yes, but it worked. Her parents never came into her room after dark (her parents hardly ever came into her room period) and she and Jackson were always careful to cover their tracks. It wasn't perfect and she wondered, often, why they even bothered with all of the drama and sneaking around. They were not, after all, Scott and Allison. They didn't do stupid shit like that. But it was nice. It felt so right; it made her so happy, so hopeful...

To be able to fall so seamlessly into partial domestic bliss. To feel so safe and comfortable with someone. To just be with him. It wasn't just about being horny teenagers. Some nights they honestly just slept. He would pass out while she was still busy perfecting her homework, hair piled on top of her head, ghastly reading glasses that she never let anyone know she had to wear on her eyes, and then she would crawl into bed next to him at a quarter to two, her body brushing against his as she reached up to click off the lamp, and he would drape an arm around her waist in his sleep easily, _comfortably_. What they had was real. It wasn't about defying their parents, being rebels, it wasn't about sex, it wasn't even about not being alone, really. It was about love.

They were _in love_. They were toeing the lines of an honest to god adult relationship.

And that is precisely why the nights are the worst.

During the days, she can surround herself with friends and try to drown out the grief in the chatter. At night, though, in the dark of her cavernous bedroom, she is left all alone with her thoughts and she suddenly can't stop thinking about how quiet it is without the sound of his steady breathing beside her, or how big and empty the bed is without his body next to hers. Getting to sleep is a nearly impossible task these days. Morning sickness is a big fucking joke and the constant nausea wipes her out and leaves her feeling like she's been put through the wringer, but still, getting to sleep has become disastrous. Staying asleep is even harder. Nightmares plague her nightly and no matter what, she can't get them out.

Eventually, she gives up trying and tries to make friends with her insomnia.

She spends her nights in bed with Prada snuggled in her lap or into her side, and her laptop on her knees and mugs of raspberry leaf tea, watching Youtube videos about cats, reading about pregnancy and watching Downton Abbey and Community. She gets really into Charmed. And 90's music. She rearranges her closet, cleans her keyboard, re-reads The Great Gatsby, stands naked in front of the mirror and tries to determine if she's showing yet... (Her body is changing. The changes are subtle, but she can notice them. She wonders if anyone else can.)

One afternoon, while her mother is searching for something, she comes across a box of Aunt Camilla's things hidden in the back of her closet. She gives the box to Lydia, saying something about how she knew they were always close, which is probably code for _I don't want this dusty old box cluttering up my closet, but I'll seem heartless if I throw it out,_ _so here._ Honestly, whatever the reason, the box is like a godsend. It gives Lydia something to do.

That night, when she inevitably can't sleep, she sits cross legged on the bed with the box in front of her, sifting through Camilla's life while Prada watches her closely from his spot curled into her leg. She _focuses_. She pulls out old, dusty, outdated articles of clothing and makes different piles. One for donation. One for the things she wants to keep. She does the same with the tacky costume jewelry that Camilla always used to wear. She throws out all of the old, crusty makeup she finds in the box. She goes through a couple stacks of photographs slowly, eventually tossing them all into her bedside drawer and vowing to make a photo album, maybe so that her future child can look through it one day and listen to all the stories about Aunt Camilla. She slips a few old diaries into the same drawer. And she does it all carefully, without dissolving into tears, without a whole lot of any emotion. She treats it like a job, any other task, just something that needs to be done like she does everything else: flawlessly, perfectly, _right._

But then she pulls out a very old, very worn, well loved book from the very bottom of the box. It's big and thick, leather bound and practically bursting at the seams. There are loose papers folded up and tucked in random places, sticking out of the book, along with a few wayward random pictures hastily tucked into the book. It's all handwritten in Aunt Camilla's loopy, dreamy handwriting and it smells like her; lavender and citrus and vanilla. It's not a diary, nor is it a photo album. No, it's something else entirely.

It's a recipe book.

See, something you need to know about Camilla is that she loved to cook. She won awards for her cooking. She could make anything. She could take the dullest ingredient and transform it into something mouthwatering and decadent. And her baking? Can't even talk about it. But her recipes were safely guarded secrets. No one knew her recipes. Not anyone.

Lydia swallows. Runs her fingertips over the familiar handwriting.

She quickly shoves all the clothes and jewelry back into the box and decides to separate them again tomorrow, hiding the box away in her closet before tucking herself back under the covers with the book. She leafs through the recipe book, unfolding every loose piece of paper and reading every word, every measurement, every tablespoon, every pinch. It's mesmerizing. She doesn't think she has felt this connected to her beloved Aunt Camilla since she died.

She falls asleep somewhere around three thirty, with the recipe book open on her chest and paper strewn all around her. Instead of blood and death and Jackson, she dreams of Aunt Camilla. When she wakes up, there is a clear plan formulating in her head.

It's not much, but it's certainly a start.

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The recipe is a catalyst.

Aunt Camilla lost her husband at a young age. They were in their mid twenties when he collapsed one day. Genetic heart condition. Nobody knew about it. Not even him. And they were soulmates. But do you want to know what Camilla did after she lost her husband, after she was left all alone with two young kids and another on the way? She _kept._ _going._

So, Lydia decides - after finding the recipe book - that she needs to keep going.

There is no other option, remember?

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She starts with Danny.

It's not something she's proud of, but she's sort of been avoiding him since the funeral. It still hurts to look at him and see the echo of Jackson in his eyes. She decides that's not a good enough reason to desert him and leave him grieving all by his lonesome. Jackson is gone now. As much as everyone else may miss him, Lydia and Danny are the only ones with gaping spaces in their hearts where he used to be, and they need to stick together. Jackson would _want_ them to stick together.

Lydia tells Danny this in a particularly _Lydia_ way.

She walks up to him in between third and fourth period on a Friday morning, all confidence and red hair, and says, in a tone that leaves no room for argument, ''Just so you know, I'm your best friend now.''

Danny looks at her sharply, eyes big and wide, mouth opening and closing soundlessly. He says, a little stunned, ''Lydia.''

She gives a firm nod. ''You're my guy now, Mahealani.'' She pats his cheek. ''And I'm coming to your game tonight,'' she goes on flawlessly, adding on a hair flip for good measure. ''So you better bring your A game, got it?'' She gives him her patented Lydia Martin Doesn't Pal Around With Losers evil eye. It is not as fierce as it once was. He still looks floored. ''Okay!'' She brightens and tosses him a bright, beaming, hopefully convincing smile. ''I'll see you tonight! Toodles!'' And then she pecks his cheek and struts away.

Great Aunt Camilla's recipe book is resting comfortably in her bag, and she thinks Jackson would be proud.

More importantly, _she_ is proud.

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**/x/**

_this time maybe i'll be bulletproof_

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Basketball is not Lydia's thing. She does genuinely enjoy lacrosse because it's brutal and it's fascinating, but she's not so much into the basketball. She is a permanent fixture at the games, because she is a true sports girlfriend, and she understands it just fine, it's just not terribly interesting to her. Honestly, she would have been fine with never having to go to another basketball game in her life. Instead, she once again finds herself heading into the gymnasium on a bitterly cold Friday night with swarms of people, lugging a handmade cardboard sign after her. She can't really complain, though. It saves her from another night alone in bed with a big book by ten o'clock like a spinster.

She is struggling with the cardboard sign and her purse, her hat is slipping off her head, and none of these people are offering her help. She thinks that is beyond rude. She is a tiny little woman and let's be real here, everyone knows who she is. She's the poor little widow who hasn't stepped foot in this place since Jackson... She gives them all withering glares. Then, of course, because the powers that be must hate her, some guy bumps into her as he rushes past - some overly zealous freshman who doesn't know how to be a proper gentleman - and her purse drops to the cold hard ground, the contents scattering.

Lydia suppresses a string of expletives and reluctantly goes down to the ground. She snatches up her cell phone before it can get trampled, but it's incredibly awkward to try and retrieve the rest of her things while simultaneously holding onto the poster board. Also, it looks like a tube of lip gloss is trying to make a break for it, so yikes. The runaway bubblegum cherry lip gloss does not, however, get very far. It rolls right into a familiar boot and then someone else is there, crouching down to easily sweep her things back into her purse with one swipe of his big paw, pun very much intended.

''You know, if we didn't know each other, I think this would qualify as a romantic comedy worthy meet and greet.''

''Derek.'' She's surprised, not just at his presence but the tone of his voice. His voice is casual, light, and when she looks at him, there is an almost smile starting on his lips. He's in a good mood. Such a different look on him. ...She kind of likes it. He pulls her to her feet with an uncharacteristic gentleness and gives her her purse back, reaching instead for the poster in her hand. ''What are you doing here?'' She asks. She notices Boyd standing slightly behind Derek, hands in his pockets, looking immeasurably calm, like always, if not a bit bored. He offers Lydia a nod and small smile in greeting.

''It's Isaac's first game,'' Derek says, and is careful not to add the glaringly obvious, _since he got the shit kicked out of him the same night your boyfriend was slaughtered_. ''I was just dropping him off.'' He sneaks a peek at her sign before she can stop him and arches an eyebrow. The corners of his lips twitch and she notices a hitch in his breathing, like he wants to laugh. She can feel her cheeks heating up but she keeps her shoulders squared and her head held high. Derek turns the sign around. ''Go, Danny, go?'' He shakes his head with a tsk of approval. ''Not very original, Lydia. I expected more from you.''

She starts to smile. ''I couldn't think of anything that rhymed.''

Boyd suggests, ''What about Danny's the manny?''

Derek and Lydia both stare at him. ''That right there,'' Derek points a finger at him, ''that's why you're not in charge of the pack rhymes.''

''What is _wrong_ with you?'' Lydia blurts out. ''Have you been possessed? Replaced by a pod person? You're acting like a...person.''

''Am I not allowed to have layers, Lydia?''

''He's just in a good mood,'' Boyd offers, waving it off. ''It happens on occasion. The full moon is still two weeks away, he found out today that the rebuild is going to cost less and take about half as long as he thought, and Isaac got a job so he's finally going to be pulling his weight with rent and stuff. Oh, and Isaac spend the night at Scott's place last night, which I imagine gave Derek here some time to finally watch all those episodes of The Good Wife that have been clogging up his DVR.''

Lydia raises her eyebrows.

''That's not - '' Derek glowers. ''I do not watch The Good Wife.''

Boyd snorts. ''Okay.''

''I do _not_ watch The Good Wife.''

''Hey, whatever, man, I don't judge.''

''Isaac got a job?'' Lydia perks up. ''Please tell me it's not as a gravedigger. Because that was creepy.''

''It's at the video rental place,'' Derek says.

''By the way,'' Boyd tacks on. ''Does no one else find it odd that we still have a video rental place?''

''I didn't even know he was looking for a job,'' Lydia says, reluctantly allowing Derek to guide her towards the bleachers, hand on the small of her back.

He shrugs. ''It was time.''

She frowns and bites her lip. ''Time,'' she echoes. ''Are you sure about that? Don't you think he should be focusing on his schoolwork?''

''He needs a job, Lydia. It's good for him.''

She stops in her tracks and whips around, her hair flying in his face, much to his annoyance. ''Why? Because you say so?''

He blinks at her. ''You're just trying to ruin my good mood, aren't you?''

''Derek,'' she hisses at him, taking a step into his personal bubble and staring up at him, challenging him. ''He's failing Math. He's failing History. He's barely scraping by in English. He's distracted enough as it is. He needs to be concentrating on graduating.''

''He says he can handle it.''

''Of course he says he can handle it, he wants to make you proud!''

''Oh, so this is my fault now?''

''You're supposed to be teaching him balance, Derek. His grades have _dropped_ since the Alpha pack.''

''You can't protect him from the world forever, Lydia. It's just a part time job.''

She harrumphs and puts her hands on her hips, standing on her tip toes to glare up at him heatedly. He stares back down at her, looking grumpy. It's like they're doing their best impression of Beauty & the Beast.

Off to the side, Boyd clears his throat. He looks uncomfortable, but somehow endlessly amused. ''I think the best part of what's happening right now is that neither of you realize what you're doing,'' he says with a smirk.

Derek and Lydia swing their gaze from him then back to each other and instantly, she sees it. She can recall walking into the kitchen numerous times and finding her parents locked in a pose strikingly similar to this one. She rears back, gasp passing through her lips and looks away from him, curling her lip in mock disgust. She glances around the crowds and pointedly doesn't look at him. ''You should be going,'' she says, perhaps a bit too snidely. ''I'm sure you have better things to do.'' She wraps her fingers around the poster board and tries to snatch it away from him but he won't let go.

''Actually,'' he says, and his thumb brushes over her fingers. ''I think I'll stick around.'' His shoulders twitch in something of a shrug. ''I want to see how this game ends.''

She recovers swiftly. ''Fine,'' she flips her hair over her shoulder. ''But you can't just sit there. I expect you to cheer. And also,'' she points a finger at the poster board. ''If you bend that, I will hurt you. Now,'' she places a hand on her hip and arches an eyebrow at Boyd and Derek expectantly. ''Which one of you is going to be a gentleman and help me up the bleachers?''

They both stare at her.

She narrows her eyes. ''I wasn't joking.''

With a frustrated sounding grunt, Derek shoves the poster at Boyd and grabs Lydia's hand dutifully, like a good boy. He's not the most chivalrous guy in the world, because his version of helping her up the bleachers basically involves ordering people to ''move'' or ''get. out. of. the. way'' but he goes slowly, because she's wearing heels, and he doesn't let go of her hand. She'll have to work on his manners, but overall, he doesn't do a horrible job.

''Hi, Alpha,'' Erica greets with a wicked little smirk, when Lydia plops down next to her and Allison. Her eyes move slowly, up to Derek. ''And hello to you to, Derek. Don't you look mighty grumpy this fine evening.'' Her only response to the glare he shoots her way is a cackle as she leans up to greet Boyd with a kiss.

Lydia offers Derek her sweetest smile ad flutters her eyelashes at him. ''Just wait until I make you hold up the sign.''

He huffs and scrunches his nose up.

But he doesn't leave.

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_the fact is you're a shocking wreck._   
_do you hear me._   
_you aren't all alone._

**\- franz wright; alcohol**

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note: I will be going on summer vacation in the beginning of July and I will be gone for one month, so that long space between updates that will be happening is not because I've abandoned this story, it will just be because I'm on vacation with limited internet access.
> 
> ix: from Center of Attention by Jackson Waters.  
> x: from Bulletproof by La Roux.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own none of the characters you recognize, nor any of the poems/songs featured in this story.
> 
> Oh yeah, and I accidentally wrote Pack Mom Lydia. I just love the idea of Lydia and Stiles teaming up to be super awesome Pack Moms together, with Stiles being the fun parent and Lydia being the one that scares the crap out of you and can make you feel pocket sized with one well timed look, and Derek...blinking at them a lot and thinking ''how is this my life?''
> 
> i: from the proverb: people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones  
> ii: from Skinny Love by Bon Iver  
> iii: from Possibility by Lykke Li  
> iv: from New York by Snow Patrol  
> v: from In My Veins by Andrew Belle


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